Tricks and Treats in Korea

I used scissors and glue more in the last week than I did in the previous fifteen years. Halloween preparations at our hagwon were no laughing matter - by all accounts, the school takes this holiday more seriously than Christmas. Working late into the night, getting callouses from cutting out countless numbers of deformed ghosts and vampires, shouting ourselves hoarse in an elaborate haunted house...this is what Halloween means in Korea. 


But, to be fair, there were some very enjoyable moments as well. If you've ever worked on any project of considerable scope, you know the odd sort of camaraderie that can only develop when multiple people are working diligently (if perhaps a bit unwillingly as well) for an extended period of time. And in this endeavor, the amazing work ethics of the Korean co-teachers put a quick end to any complaints we foreigners might have had. This didn't stop us from occasionally griping about the long hours without overtime, of course, but it was really inspiring to see the lengths to which our Korean coworkers went to make the celebration a success.


Generally speaking, Halloween is not a big deal in Korea. However, the influx of English teachers in the last decade or so has brought a heightened awareness of the holiday, and today it is celebrated by many young people. Especially in the hagwons, Halloween serves as a bit of cultural education and the kids seem to be quite enthusiastic about it. In keeping with the adventurous capitalistic spirit of Korea, merchants are beginning to realize the value of catering to this niche market. In a mid-sized city like Cheonan, there is only one store that sells Halloween costumes and decorations, but there is a bustling Internet marketplace where one can buy all sorts of overpriced paraphernalia. It would not be surprising if, in five years, the Halloween shopper has far more local options to purchase jack o'lanterns and witch hats.

Still, it is easy to forget that October 31st has any real significance, other than being the last day before November. This has certain benefits, because if you step outside the foreigner community (which wholeheartedly celebrates the day in true Western, booze-drenched style) you quickly realize how celebrations like Halloween, New Year's, Valentine's Day, etc. are entirely constructed by society, and lack any intrinsic meaning. For those of us that experience anxiety around the holidays, feeling some external pressure to "properly" celebrate, this can be a real relief.

The Halloween celebration provided an interesting look at the confusing and fragmented nature of Korean culture. Our late-night work sessions were made much easier by the kindness of several parents who brought delicious meals for the entire staff. A handful of dedicated and detail-oriented mothers came in and set up elaborate balloon decorations. And on the day of the party, our desks were filled with oranges, pastries, and other treats from the parents.

But the highly competitive nature of Korean society also reared its ugly head that day. Our head teacher, who had worked so hard to prepare the school for the Halloween party, was reduced to tears by the biting words of the school's director. The director apparently felt that the event was lacking in some regard, and took out her full frustration on the head teacher. At the end of such a stressful week, one that had seen her log 15 hour days in order to complete the preparations, this was an almost unbearable attack. As I watched her sob uncontrollably at her desk, I saw how the relentless pursuit of perfection that characterizes Korean society today can take a heavy toll on a person's state of mind. Striving for constant improvement is a noble goal, but a risky one as well - it's easy to get caught up in the urge to be "better" and  forget that the end goal is a simple one - happiness.

Midnight Train to Daejeon

When I walked into my apartment on Sunday morning, I was smelly, disheveled, several hundred thousand won poorer, and thoroughly exhausted. I was also very happy. 

Last weekend was a perfect example of the possibilities this land offers to the intrepid (reckless?) explorer. At 8:00 p.m. I boarded a bus for Seosan, a small city near the west coast of Korea. This seemingly nondescript city is currently the hometown of an old friend from the University of Minnesota, Kelsey Hotle. Thanks to a reference from a mutual friend and the miracle of Skype, we were planning to reunite in Korea for a weekend of cultural education and light-hearted adventure. The initial itinerary included a trip to Heyri, a village of artists near the North Korean/South Korean border, dinner at a temple-style restaurant called Sanchon in Seoul, and a visit to the Baekje cultural festival. But, as the saying goes, "If you want to make the universe laugh, make a  plan."

When Kelsey came to meet me at the bus station, we had every intention of taking a quick tour of Seosan, saying hello to a few friends, and getting some sleep before catching the early morning bus to Heyri. Instead, we were treated to an elaborate birthday celebration at an empty Korean nightclub, complete with fire-breathing bartenders, juggling waiters (full disclosure - they actually dropped all the juggled objects), and an enthusiastic Korean man dancing around in a horse mask. We proceeded from there to a norabong, or karaoke room, where we sang alongside some friendly Korean people whose incredible generosity was matched only by their terrible pitch. We left the norabong as the sun was rising, and after a quick breakfast of bibimbap (a giant bowl of rice with vegetables, an egg, and some other miscellaneous ingredients) we packed our bags and boarded the bus to Heyri. The only thing we forgot to do was sleep. It was now Saturday morning

Later that night, we were standing at Seoul Station buying train tickets to Daejeon, completely sleep-deprived and mildly delirious. The battery on my camera was completely dead, its charge exhausted by the flurry of pictures taken at Heyri. Elegant sculptures, avant-garde architecture, Korean hipsters, creepy cartoon figures - all were captured by my Nikon DSC. Heyri was a microcosm of the confusing/beautiful/disjointed/fascinating character of Korea. 

One building housed a full replica of a Korean village circa 1950, complete with nostalgic Konglish guide brochures (sample text -"We remember times of scarce that our grandfathers fought on.") and an sixty year old piano that Kelsey's brother Brad played admirably well. Only a few hundred meters from this bastion of national history and social commentary sat an IKEA, stocked with reasonably priced mixing bowls and decorative soaps. 

We saw a Museum of Toys, and a Museum of Blades. We saw an old school-bus-turned-jewelry-shop that sold exquisite hair pins, and an exhibit devoted to cats that was so hip it featured a impressionist painting of a sphinx right next to a movie poster for Garfield 2. We saw so many bizarre and interesting things at Heyri that my brain is still struggling to properly digest the whole experience. But the most beautiful works of art were found at our next destination.

Nestled in a back alley of Insadong, a market district of Seoul, Sanchon restaurant was an absolute godsend for our feverish and road-weary minds. As we sat on cushions around the low table, surrounded by statues of the Buddha and traditional Korean artwork, we gazed up at the lotus-shrouded lights and the feeling was quite surreal. For some reason, we spoke in hushed tones, and had our words appeared in print each sentence would have ended with a ! 

A woman brought out dozens of small dishes filled with delicious vegetarian dishes - mushrooms, kimchi, lotus roots, stuffed peppers, wild vegetables, and much more. Though we were all absolutely ravenous, we took the time to savor each mouthful. It was one of the most spiritual meals I've ever eaten, and though we didn't talk about this at the table, I think that thought was in all of our minds. Check out the menu here; my words don't do the actual dishes nearly enough justice. When we finished our meal, blissfully satiated and half-asleep, dancers entered the center of the restaurant dressed in ceremonial Korean clothing. They performed traditional Korean dances and played drums, at one point inviting patrons to join them in a drum circle that started slowly and gradually escalated to a feverish joyful cacophony. When it was over, we sat quietly for a moment and then slowly made our way toward the door, full of food and happiness. 

Out in the streets of Insadong, surrounded by loud merchants and merry denizens of the night, Kelsey and I faced an important decision to make, one posed most eloquently by the Clash - should we stay or should we go? Actually, that doesn't make much sense considering our situation, so let me explain our options more clearly. To "stay" meant to find a hotel in Seoul or return home to our respective cities for a much-needed night of sleep. We had been awake for at least 36 hours straight and we were both completely exhausted. 

To "go" meant catching a train to Daejeon, a large city about two hours away from Seoul. There was a music festival there which several of Kelsey's friends were attending. It would have been very reasonable to pass on this opportunity and return home - we had experienced quite enough for one weekend. But any real explorer loves to test the limits of their endurance, and so we decided to head for Daejeon.

 This situation is a perfect illustration of why you should always travel with someone who is at least 15% crazier than you - if Kelsey hadn't been there, I am sure I would have returned home, simply because that is my natural tendency. I'll have four pieces of cake, but not five. It just doesn't occur to me, once I am satiated, to reach for another slice. But on rare occasions, gluttony can be a good thing.

This appreciation is easy to reach in retrospect, but it was harder to grasp as I lay on the floor of a standing-room only car on the train bound for Daejeon, clutching at my bag and trying unsuccessfully to pass out. A standing room only train car in Korea is a cutthroat place, and space is at a premium. For a foreigner with long legs and a fierce headache, it's an uncomfortable place to be. Luckily, the trip was rescued by a most unexpected savior. 

Somebody sat on my shoe, and I started up, ready to be scolded by an elderly Korean aujima. Instead, I was greeted by three Korean girls with bright smiles and funky shoes. After a brief exchange of pleasantries in English and Korean, it became clear to Kelsey and me that these girls were eager to practice speaking English with us. And so began one of the most entertaining journeys of my life.

The girls, who were high school students from Daejeon, had spent the day in Seoul at the university taking music lessons. They were aspiring singers who idolized Western musicians like Alicia Keys, Celine Dion, and the Spice Girls (when it comes to musical taste, to each their own, I believe). The more we learned about these girls, the more amazed I was to be having this conversation, at this time and in this place. Let me explain.

The life of a Korean teenager is highly regimented - they attended "regular" school while also taking math, music, or English lessons, and most of their time is spent studying for one test or another. Some kids rebel and act out, to be sure, but not in the ways typical to the West. You don't find 16 year old kids trying to buy beer at the liquor store (or convenience store, in Korea), or smoking cigarettes behind the high school, or anything like that. The overwhelming majority of Korean teenagers seem to live firmly under their parents' control around the clock, all year long.

Yet apparently they also enjoy a degree of freedom most American teens would envy greatly (I know my sisters would never have been allowed to take a train from Minneapolis to Chicago by themselves at the age of 17).  I found it extraordinary that these girls were travelling without parents to a city of 10 million people, spending the entire day there, and then returning home on an 11:00 p.m. train that night. Even more surprising was the fact that, during our entire two hour conversation, they never once mentioned doing anything that their parents might disapprove of. 

We taught them the essentials of American slang (yo, dude, punk, trippin', sweet). They taught us the dance moves to a K-Pop song with the startlingly Western refrain of "You don't know me, you don't know me...shut up boy! Shut up boy!" We talked about significant others, and our mutual lack of them. In short, we talked about all the silly, empty little things that help you build a connection with people when you are a foreigner in their country. At times like this, the simple act of conversation means more than the content. 

We got off the train in Daejeon, said goodbye to our new friends, and promptly sent our taxi driver on an hour long snipe hunt. When we finally reached our destination, we were greeted by a horrifically untalented rock band. On a scale of 1-10 my sleep-deprivation headache had been an 8 before entering the establishment; upon leaving, it was a 47. As we left the bar, we ran into a couple of very friendly Korean musicians who were enamored of Kelsey. Several hours later, their admiration for her was overwhelmed by their distaste for the male members of our group, and they ran out of the restaurant, leaving us with a 75,000 won bill for "KF-style chicken". And that was the highlight of our actual stay in Daejeon.

It's a cliche that the journey is often more important than the destination. Still, there is a nugget of truth to the saying here (though in fairness most cliches are true, if also infuriatingly smug and simple). We had fun in Heyri, we had fun in Seoul, and we had fun in Daejeon. But we had more fun in the places in between. We never expected to see anything in particular, and we didn't compare any situation we encountered to a preconceived notion of what it should be. And thus, we were never disappointed. We've got some great pictures to prove it.

At least, Kelsey does. My camera died in Heyri. Which is why my #1 rule of traveling in Korea (or anywhere) is:

Always charge your battery before you leave the house. And bring a spare if you can.

Getting Started

I arrived in Korea on August 9th, 2010. I came to work as an English teacher in a private language school, or hagwon. Having done a bit of preliminary research before the trip, I had packed the recommended essentials for a foreigner making an extended stay in the Land of the Morning Calm: several large towels, a six-month supply of deodorant, and some comfortable hiking shoes.

I also carried a bit of advice that has proved infinitely more useful than any of the aforementioned items, even considering the sweltering late summer heat (and excellent mountain trails) of  this land. Before leaving Minnesota I exchanged a series of e-mails with my uncle Tak, a man whose insight, creativity, and curiosity impress me more with each conversation. He offered the following words of advice:

"You may not choose to or can do all the things I recommended with the given time and money restriction, but I feel any preparation you make this time is part of a bigger preparation for you to become INDEPENDENT. By INDEPENDENT, I do not mean INDEPENDENCE from your parents or financial INDEPENDENCE. I mean the INDEPENDENCE to create your self-sufficient (thinkingwise) life environ (not to retreat from the world but in fact to have more active and engaging connections WHEN and WHERE you wish) where you can be yourself AND AT THE SAME TIME you are connected with the world."


To me this seems like quite a radical definition of independence. After all, most young people (and old people, for that matter) view independence in exactly the light that Tak dismissed. We see independence as freedom from something: financial worry, familial influence, social pressure, and so on. We rarely consider independence as a mind-state that bestows freedom regardless of whether or not those factors are in play.


In January 2010 I had the good fortune to discover a community that does cultivate such an unconventional notion of independence. Like hundreds of people before me, I stumbled into Common Ground Meditation Center with little understanding of what "meditation" meant, and even less understanding of how to practice it. Luckily, Common Ground is home to a remarkable teacher and a remarkable group of like-minded practitioners, or sangha.

Mark Nunberg, the co-founder and guiding teacher of Common Ground, has been one of the most powerful (and positive) influences in my life. Mark's simple, direct words and unwaveringly kind spirit helped me realize the ultimate goal of any human pursuit or activity: happiness. More important than blissful metaphysics, though, were the practical instructions he gave for achieving a first-hand understanding of this seemingly obvious yet surprisingly subversive truth. He continues to educate and inspire me, even from thousands of miles away, thanks to the wonders of the Internet (big thanks to Al Gore). His weekly dharma talks can be found in podcast form here; they're incredibly informative and easily accessible. But in the words of LeVar Burton, "Don't take my word for it..."

The sangha of Common Ground has been no less influential in my journey thus far. Sunday afternoons, Wednesday evenings, Friday mornings...each time we gathered together, the feeling of love and trust was tangible. Which isn't to say we were all enlightened saints - far from it! Every day we brought a fresh batch of problems to the zafu: anger, grief, desire, jealousy, doubt. But there was a quite confidence that we were on the right track - no matter how many times we wandered off the path, we would never completely lose our way. All it took was a willingness to start again.

When I think of the people who make up the Common Ground community, I can't help but smile. Matt, Julian, Rebecca, Nancy, Dick, Mike P., Scott, Butch, Gail, Merra, Anya, Aaron, Susan, Wynn, Stef, Paul, Danny, Ann, Mike C,, Nick, John, Shelly, Tom, Rosy, Evelyn, Silke, Melis, and so many more whose names are in my heart, if not my fingertips. Metta and all good wishes to you, wherever you are and whatever you do.

As I've been writing about Common Ground, its teacher and its people, I've felt a certain tranquility that I can only describe as deep happiness. Of course, it's much easier to feel this way sitting in half-lotus on the bed than in a classroom full of over-excited kindergarteners, or in a hectic subway station, or surrounded by the pulsating neon lights on a Saturday night in Seoul. Too often in my brief tenure as a teacher in Korea have I been swept up in a cyclone of distraction, falling into old, unhelpful patterns of thinking, speaking, acting and reacting.

But maybe that's the beauty of an experience like this one. Maybe the only place to develop the kind of independent mind that Tak described is out and about in this mad, too-huge world. I love Korea - I love ordering a meal at a restaurant and not really knowing what I'll be eating till it arrives; I love the bemused stares of toddlers as we pass each other on the street; I love walking into a train station and seeing a hundred possible destinations for the adventure of a lifetime.

I love the dhamma, too. I love the calm and contentment of a peaceful mind. I love going to sleep at night knowing that I've done my best to treat every living being with kindness and compassion, and that any lapses in this attitude are exceptions rather than the rule. I love the quiet joy of feeling connected to all people near and far, known and unknown, weak and mighty, in gladness and in sorrow.

So how do these two loves co-exist? How do you combine the joy of adventure/exploration/unknown with the joy of peace/calm/understanding? How does a dingledodie practice the dhamma?

That's what I'm hoping to discover here. If you've got any insights, let me know.